Friendly Fire
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Illya is captured by THRUSH and escapes. However things are not what they first appear.


_You can become quite accustomed to just about anything,_ Illya thought as he spat out a mouthful of blood. He desperately wanted to swallow it, but he knew better. Blood was salty and would only worsen his thirst.

It had been a typical Friday night. He'd left Del Floria's heading for his flat in Brooklyn when he'd been roughly shoved into an alley and a cloth sack had been crammed down over his head. He'd fought, but THRUSH had impregnated the sack with ether. He was down before he even really had much of a chance to defend himself. The drug had left him viciously thirsty and he was quite sure that's exactly what THRUSH wanted.

Illya had come to in a dim little room, its walls lined with rusty looking instruments of torture. He was tied to a chair and in the company of THRUSH. He'd lost track of time, not a good thing for an agent. He wasn't sure how long he'd been out and there was no indication of light from behind the shuttered windows or locked door.

However his self-preservation meant that his mouthful of blood landed on the shirt of one of the three THRUSH who were currently entertaining him. He was clearly not pleased and cuffed Illya sharply. The action made stars dance in front of Illya's eyes.

"Talk! Tell us about UNCLE!" he demanded.

"Which uncle?" Illya mumbled in French. He refused to use any more energy than was necessary to speak up. "There was Uncle Boris. One night he got really drunk and the next morning they found him in the bushes with two sheep. All three of them were rumored to have been smiling—"

Another punch cut him off and Illya grunted. His stomach ached from the blows, but he was also confused. Why were they wasting so much energy beating him when there were things in the room that would make him talk or die much faster?

"UNCLE!"

"Uncle Peter used to like to run naked through the town square. The local meat monger had a very interesting name for him. He called him ten inch…" This time he tried German, but they didn't seem anymore keen on that language.

Another blow and Illya let his body slump, feigning unconsciousness. One of the other THRUSH pulled his head back by his hair and Illya refused to react.

"He's gone."

"I'd heard he was made of sterner stuff."

"Rumors. Let's go."

Illya stayed still for a long moment, relishing the chance to regroup.

"Nope, he's really out."

"Why don't they ever make our jobs easy and just tell us what we want to know."

"I don't know. That story about Uncle Boris was pretty funny."

"Come on, Ryan. I'll go buy you a nice glass of Wool Lite."

"Funny, Marcus, you are killing me."

"Hey, you two, you know the rules, no names. Not even when the subject is out."

"Any idea what he was saying, Denworth?"

"Naw, dumb foreigners. He should have learned to speak English before he came here."

"I hear he has a PhD in quantum physics from Cambridge. I suspect he was just messing with us."

Still talking, they left and Illya opened his eyes slowly, wary, but he was alone. He took a deep breath and took stock of things. His face and stomach hurt. He was hungry and very thirsty, but otherwise in fair condition. He'd been handled much worse by THRUSH.

"What are you really are?" he whispered and tested his bonds. He'd over-reacted to the blows, feigning both fear and desperation. In reality, he'd been gradually loosening them. Whatever Ryan and Marcus did as their day job, they needed to polish up their rope skills.

Illya twisted and managed to get a knot loose. Within a heartbeat, his hands were free and then his feet. Illya stood and very nearly passed out. He took a deep breath and then saw a glass of water. His mouth would have watered if it had any saliva left, but Illya didn't know if that water was safe or tainted. Illya had fought too hard to free himself to fail now.

He blinked his eyes quickly and took several deep breaths. Walking to the wall, he looked for a proper weapon. The club looked good, but heavy. The chains were unwieldy, so he settled for a staff.

He heard a noise and Illya grabbed the staff. Or rather he tried to. It was securely fastened to the wall.

"What?" he started, then realized the door was opening. Illya had had to rely upon his fists before and now would be no exception.

He took down the first man before he could even react. There was a pleasant sound of a snapping bone as he slammed him foot into the leg of the one called Ryan. He didn't have much left, so he wasn't as pretty with the last man. He rammed a fist into the man's throat, then to the back on his head and left the man moaning on the ground.

Illya grabbed the door knob and raced out. Then he stopped, his mouth open wide. He was in UNCLE headquarters and Mr. Waverly nearly jumped at the sight of him.

Within an instant, an obviously furious Illya was surrounded by agents, but he only had eyes for Waverly.

He fought his way to stand before the man and growled out one word. "Why?"

Illya winced as the alcohol stung his lip. The scene he'd created and his subsequent resignation at headquarters had not been pretty. At least no one made the mistake of try to stop him from leaving. It felt as if it had taken him ten hours to get home, but he was here now.

The door was locked as were the windows. He was safe, but he was far from happy. Never had he been treated like that before.

There was a knock and Illya's hand found his gun.

"Illya?"

For a moment, Illya considered ignoring Napoleon's voice, but training took over. He stood with a grunt and moved to the side of the door. "Are you alone?"

"I am."

"I will kill anyone with you." With that, Illya cautiously opened the door. True to his word, only Napoleon was in the hall. The sounds from other apartments assailed Illya's ears and for an instant, he felt so alone.

Napoleon entered and waited until Illya relocked the door. Illya limped back to his chair and sat. His partner followed slowly and took a seat on the second hand sofa. For a long moment, they remained silent, then Illya finally pushed a glass towards his partner.

Napoleon poured a measure of vodka into the water-spotted glass and took a belt. He nearly gasped and Illya shook his head.

"Amateur."

"How was I supposed to know you were pouring rocket fuel? Did you know you broke Ryan's collarbone and Marcus's leg? Denworth's larynx was nearly crushed."

"He's lucky I was off my game or he'd be dead." Illya flopped back in his chair, then his head came up. "Just answer one question for me. Did you know?"

"About you or that test?"

"Both."

"I had no idea they'd targeted you, Illya. I just got back this morning and got an anonymous call that you'd been grabbed. I didn't even know where they were squirreling you away."

"On your honor."

"As an UNCLE agent."

"Try something else. I'm not giving them much credit at the moment."

"Then as your partner and your friend."

"And that test, what they were trying to prove?"

"They want to make sure you don't break or aren't something else, like a THRUSH plant." Napoleon emptied his glass. Illya refilled it. "We've all gone through it." He tipped his head back and pointed to the small crescent shaped scar. "That's how I got this. They grabbed me in London. They soon regretted the move. From what I understand, several enforcement agents like ours do exactly the same thing."

"Just because everyone participate, it does not make it right. I have been lied to, used as a pawn, asked incredible tasks of, but never was I beaten by my superiors in the Russian Navy."

"Never?"

"That is not to say they didn't want to, but I convinced them otherwise. My superiors preferred to send me on assignments that didn't increase body count among our own ranks.

Hence your nickname, the Russian Wolf." Napoleon hazarded another drink and didn't cough this time. "Probably wiser on their part.

"How is it that I've never heard of this before?"

"It's like there a cone of silence or shame around it. The ones who don't pass don't advance to become senior agents, but we don't talk about it out of respect for the junior Section Two agents." This time Napoleon nearly finished the vodka in one gulp. "This stuff smooths out after a while.

"So we would like to believe. I won't stay quiet, Napoleon. I will tell anyone who breathes."

"That's what Waverly figured. He's discontinuing the test. He felt it has out-lived its usefulness. I didn't argue with him." Outside, a fire engine, its sirens blaring, went by. Illya topped off the glasses. He tipped his glass back in one and Napoleon mimicked his action.

"Good."

"So, does this mean you're staying?" The question was quietly asked.

"I resigned. Rather spectacularly. Waverly won't want me back."

"You aren't the first. We all did or most of us. It took them nearly a month to convince me to come back." Magically the glasses were refilled.

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I don't know. I didn't think about it, to be honest. I guess after all this time, I'd convinced myself it was a bad dream

"But they are done with it?"

"With you singing it from the hills, it would lose its effectiveness." Napoleon reached into his pocket and pulled out Illya's ID card. "In case you decide to stay."

"Completely done with it?"

"Mr. Waverly says so. I don't make it a habit of questioning him. I have to believe him at his word. He's a good man, Illya, in spite of what you think." Illya grunted. "Well, think about it." He got up to leave and began to sway.

"I think you need to sit down before you fall down, Napoleon. Tonight, we will drink and tomorrow we will talk."

"But you only have one bed."

"Three more of those and you will happily sleep in the sink." He raised his glass. "To the end of such villainy. "

"Hear, hear!"

As they toasted, not far away, a young agent had a bag, impregnated with ether, shoved over his head and was dragged in to an alley.


End file.
